


Waking Dreams

by jillyfae



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Circle of Magi, City Elves, Elven Alienages, F/M, First Time, Friendship, Gen, Magic, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:59:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“Do you ever wonder if it’s worth it?”  </p>
  <p>“If what’s worth it?”</p>
  <p>She lifted her hand, pale fingers catching the firelight and making his breath catch as she gestured at the room, and the Templar, and the Tower entire.  <i>Why bother locking us up at all, if there’s no future for us anyways?</i></p>
  <p>It was a rather common question, though he’d never heard her ask it.</p>
  <p>He didn’t think she was quite asking it now, but it was similar enough.  <i>Why study, why fight, why care?</i></p>
</blockquote>
<p>Hope, desire, fear, memory ... finding a family in the Circle, no matter how doomed the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spiritofemby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiritofemby/gifts).



> This is the same Neria of whom Anders speaks in [Never Say Never](https://archiveofourown.org/works/674501).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even confined to their Circles, mages still live their lives as best they can, lessons and learning and friendships ...

Neria was only a year or so younger than him, but she looked so very fragile, pale and delicate even for an elf, and on about his second day in the Tower Niall began making up the most ridiculous adventures in his head, of the two of them away from the heavy stone walls, exploring caves or mysterious woods or traveling through the mountains, and him getting the chance to protect her from some Dire Wolves, or Giant Spiders, and her turning to him and smiling, wide and open and delighted and with eyes even bluer than the sky, and thanking him with that beautiful light lilt in her voice.

Once he was over ten and actually saw her cast, he realized that was ridiculous even, for a little boy’s dreams, because she was better at offensive magic than he was, and would probably fry a Giant Spider before he’d even seen the thing.

Also she had the temper of a Dire Wolf, so if he’d tried to save her when she didn’t need it she’d have fried him too.

By the time he was sixteen, that thought made him smile.  Though his imagination was now coming up with adventures that had much less to do with casting magic or seeing the world beyond the Tower, and more to do with the light touch of her slim fingers, and the way the very edge of her mouth lifted when she was trying not laugh during a lecture, and the slight hint of curves he could see beneath her robes.

She, unfortunately, seemed not to be interested in what was beneath anyone else’s robes, so he kept his thoughts as much to himself as possible, and settled for sharing a table in the library when they were studying.

And then he was woken up in the middle of the night, his turn in the cold round chamber with a sword waiting beside him, and it was very difficult to smile again, wondering if she’d survive her Harrowing when it was her turn.

***

“Do you ever wonder if it’s worth it?”  Her voice was quiet, and he blinked a moment as he lifted his head from the scroll spread across his lap.  He wasn’t an apprentice anymore, but he still liked to read with her while she was studying.  She had been enjoying a collection of ballads this particular night, so they’d settled in some chairs beside the fire, and were even mostly alone for once.

There was a Templar across the room, of course, but he was paying more attention to the large study group giggling at the table by the door.

“If what’s worth it?”

She lifted her hand, pale fingers catching the firelight and making his breath catch as she gestured at the room, and the Templar, and the Tower entire.   _Why bother locking us up at all, if there’s no future for us anyways?_

It was a rather common question, though he’d never heard her ask it.

He didn’t think she was quite asking it now, but it was similar enough.   _Why study, why fight, why care?_

He liked to think she cared for him, friends, almost family, and that was part of what had inspired the question.

“Do you remember your mother?”  He smiled a little as she scowled at him, obviously not impressed by his apparent change of subject.  

“I remember being cold and hungry all the time, and desperately wanting to be warm, and setting my blankets on fire.”  She shook her head, the scowl fading into something sad.  ”I can’t quite remember her face, or the color of her eyes, but I’ve always thought she was a bit relieved, to have one less mouth to try and feed.”

“Ah.”  Niall sighed and pushed his hair back off his face.  ”My mother was what most people politely refer to as simple.  But she could recite the entire Chant forwards and backwards, and she would sing me to sleep with a different lullaby each night.  I remember her making it through an entire season without a single repeat.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“It was.”  He shrugged.  He could still hear her voice at night sometimes, in that warm drowsy moment right before he fell asleep.  ”And then I somehow killed her favorite flower patch by siccing sort-of imaginary  monster bugs on it.”

Neria’s lips twitched, half empathy for his loss, half trying not to giggle.  Most people accidentally froze something, or singed it.  Almost all children instinctively started with primal.  Entropic magic wasn’t as common, but when it happened, it was usually disgusting and messy and memorable.

There was frequently slime.

He was lucky; his had just been a cloud of solid black shadows buzzing through the leaves.

“Of course our neighbors were panicking, calling for the Templars and backing away from us both, but she just gathered me up in her arms and she smiled.  I was sobbing and snotty and shaking, you know how it is,” Neria nodded, that first flash was terrifying and out of control, “but she wiped my face and kissed my cheek and kept smiling.”

_“I’ll miss you my lovely, but it’s a gift you have, the Maker’s Gift, and you’ll do great things with it, I know you will.”_

“And the Templars came, and she smiled at them as well, and said she knew they had to take her boy away, but could they stay for some tea first, they always looked so thirsty walking around in all that heavy armor, and they were startled enough by the reception they’d rather said yes before they meant to, and we drank tea and she gave me the last of the cookies and stroked my hair and made sure I took my toy dog with me when I left.”

Neria was smiling now, her head tilted as she looked at him.  _Maker’s Breath, she’s pretty._   ”That’s not how that story usually goes.”

“No, but it should be, I think.  Magic is a gift.  And we can still live a good life here, if we try.”

“You really think so?”

“I really think so.”

“Hmmm.”  She hummed softly, still smiling, and ducked her head as her glance shifted down into her lap.  ”I hope you’re right.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.  He hoped he was right too.


	2. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First kisses, first freedoms, first desires ... first and last loves.

Niall had thought she hadn't wanted him.  Had been honored to be Neria's friend, so he tried very hard not to admit, even to himself, how much he wished he could be more than that.

But when she'd passed her Harrowing, he'd been so very happy.  Relief and delight and a warmth in his heart and he'd picked her up and swung her around and had to swallow a shout so as not to draw the attention of the Templar around the corner.

She'd laughed so very softly into his ear, her arms clinging around his shoulders, and he lowered her slowly to the floor, until her toes just barely touched, and he could feel the warmth of her along his entire body, head to toe, and he couldn't breathe, and he couldn't speak, and he could feel her breath against his cheek, soft and light and warm.

She was close enough he felt it when her breath caught.  He looked into her eyes, so clear and wide and blue, and gently, slowly, kissed her lips.

It was soft, and though she was even sweeter than he'd ever imagined, he pulled back after just a moment, letting his arms relax and slide down her sides, feeling her settled completely back down onto her feet before he opened his eyes again.

There was the slightest hint of pink warming her cheeks, and she was smiling at him.  She darted back up on her toes, one quick kiss upon his cheek, a whispered " _later_ " against his skin, and she was gone, a twist of robes and delicate footsteps as Jowan called her name from the other room.

***

Their first later mostly involved talking.  Dreams and desires and her fingers wrapped around his and her slight weight resting against his legs as they curled up in the same giant chair in front of the fire in a quiet corner of the library.  There was always the chance someone would see, some Templar would notice, but they were quiet, and well-liked by most, and it was between their usual rounds, and he couldn't quite resist how wonderful it felt, to have her there with him.

To realize she did feel the same way, and had just wanted to wait until her Harrowing, hadn't want to risk their hearts if one of them should fail.

He didn't quite know how to tell her that his heart was quite gone already, and he tucked his chin against her head, the scent of her hair the only thing he could bear to consider as he blinked and blinked again, until his eyes stopped burning and he could breath again.

She shifted in his lap, and he slid his fingers against her chin to lift her face to his.  He kissed her again, and it was different this time, warmth and promise and potential, and the slight hint of tongue between their lips before they broke apart, breathless and warm, at the echo of heavy footsteps down the hall.

***

Their second later was behind the shelves, one of the corners the Mages had found and protected from Templar eyes.  It felt more like a dream than reality, soft light leaking through the books, haloing her hair, pale and soft around her head, making her skin gleam beneath his hands.

He felt rough and clumsy, had no real idea what he was doing, but neither did she, so they took their time, kisses and hands and the slow reveal of all the skin usually hidden beneath their robes.

Well most of their skin.  She kept on her shift, and he his smalls, as he tasted her smooth pale skin and trailed his fingers against slim hips and found out her whole body shuddered when he gently kissed the tips of her ears.

***

He'd wanted to take his time, something more than a stolen hour behind the shelves.  He'd been trying to arrange it, an evening apart, a day neither of them had too much to do, a store-room on the top floor where no one ever went, now full of blankets and pillows and a few pilfered candles.

But she caught him before lunch, and dragged him behind the shelves, her body pressed to his, her hands trembling and her kisses hard and desperate.  

"Please," she whispered, "please, there's something wrong with Jowan, with the First Enchanter, I don't know what, I don't know how bad, not yet, but I'm afraid, something's going to happen, I need you, please."

And he kissed her back, and he kissed her hard, over and over, and he slid his hand under her robes, rubbing the heel of his palm against her, hard tight circles as he'd learned she'd liked in scattered moments before, until her breath caught and she shuddered in his arms.

She dragged him to the floor then, tugging at robes and smalls until they were both truly naked, skin on skin and the whisper of her voice and he tried to ease them both together but she pulled him close and lifted her hips and he slammed inside her hard and fast.

She made a sharp short cry, a strangled gasp, and his vision went white,  _so tight, so good, Maker, Neria,_ and he felt the flow of magic from her, a trickle of healing, rejuvenation, and he wasn't sure if he'd hurt her, or if she was trying to encourage them both.  He blinked, and dipped his head beside hers, breathing in skin and hair, a brush of his lips against her ear to feel her shudder, to ask her if she was alright, if she was sure, but she turned her head towards him, her whisper soft and aching, _please Niall, please more, please,_ and he rolled his hips.

Her whole body arched that time, breathless and gasping, and he almost came right then, already, at the feel of her shifting around him, beneath him.

But he wanted more than anything, more than breathing, more than light, more than dreams without demons, to feel her come around him.

He bit his lip, his fingers digging into the floor beneath them, each shift of his hips exquisite and torturous and she was gorgeous and perfect and wrapped around, a gasp in her breathing and her hands clinging tightly and he  _wasn't going to last,_ he really wasn't, despite his best intentions, and he shifted his weight just enough to kiss her cheek, to nip at her ear, and she gasped out his name, one last time, her whole body taut and her nails catching on his skin and  _Maker,_ he couldn't control himself a moment longer, his body curving in tight against her as he came.

When he remembered how to breathe again he slid slowly to the side, and she followed, her hands on his cheeks as she kissed him, wide open and slow, sighing together, her body pressed to his, chest and legs and her toes catching against the top of his feet.

"Oh, Niall."  She sounded sad, and he felt an ache in his heart, that he hadn't been as good to her as she deserve.  She kissed his cheek, his nose, her breath tickling his skin.  "I don't ever want to leave.  Right here.  Perfect."

He hugged her close for as long as he dared, agreeing completely.


	3. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taphophobia: fear of being placed in a grave while still alive (metaphorically speaking)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by [twistedsinews](http://twistedsinews.tumblr.com/), inspired by [Erika's](http://whyswhoswhats.tumblr.com/post/67775940649) headmorph of my Neria.

Some days she wondered.

Wondered if it was worth getting up in the morning.

If it was worth the decision whether to wrangle fresh tea and toast by being early to breakfast, or if it would be better to grab a half a 'mark's worth more of sleep, and settle with cool limp bread and the bitter dregs.

Wondered if it was worth bothering with lessons, with friendships, with focus and vigilance and the quest to find one small bit of joy or humor each day.

What was the benefit, after all, to all that effort?

She would never be free of the Tower, would never be able to find her family, to share the food the Chantry provided ... even limp toast was better than none at all, and she could, despite the years, recall the sharp cramps of hunger, and the chill that seeped through too thin walls in the winter, so different from the lingering damp of too thick stone.

Did it really count as life at all, if your only options were survival or Tranquility?

Some days she wondered, if she just stopped, if they'd give her the brand, or the sword.

For some reason they seemed to think the former a kindness, for all it seemed clear it was just as fatal, a walking corpse with the memories of a lifetime, but no inclination to life itself, not even the little bit permitted under Templars' eyes.

But despite it all, she did not wish to  _die._

She did not want to give up.

She wanted to roll her eyes at Daylen's latest brag, and Anders' latest flirtation.  Wanted to turn the fire in her hands small and blue and impossibly hot, before anyone else in her class had figured it out.

Wanted to see Niall's smile whenever their eyes met, over lunch or books or chores.

They seemed such small desires, in the face of the wide world hinted at within their books, the fleeting memories of sky and wind and a giant tree with branches wide enough to sleep upon.

She wondered if they'd be enough to resist temptation, the nights the whispers in her dreams grew too loud, the night the Templars came and made her walk the Fade itself.

She wondered if she'd care at the sight of Niall's smile faltering if she failed, after the brand, after the last of her questions were buried beyond the reach of her thoughts.

She wondered if she'd have the courage to ask for more than simply smiles, if she succeeded.


	4. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From alienage to circle, from parents to friends. What makes a family, or a home?
> 
> prompted by [sulahnnehn](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/98459297358) ... because Suranas <3

She doesn’t remember what they looked like, no eyes or smiles or the color of hair in the sunlight.

She remembers the smells of home, sweat and dirt and mulch and leaves and sunshine warmed bark, the grit of crumbling pieces caught beneath her nails and in her hair.

She remembers a rumble of a voice above her head, tired and slow, but warm at least, almost as warm as her sister’s back pressed to hers in their narrow pallet, as the hand that falls to rest against her shoulder, stroking, soothing as her breath catches in an almost cough as the wind blows outside the walls, and through them, just a little, shivering through her hair and against her ears.

She remembers the grip of a hand around her arm, fingers too thin and tight, a sigh escaping before the fingers ease, and a voice gone thin with worry and cold reminds her not to stray too far beyond the court, beyond the tree. Not to follow the hint of human voices carrying over the wall.

Not to look.

Not to be seen.

She remembers being cold, and hungry, she remembers the whine of her brother’s voice when there was no food for seconds, when there had barely been food for firsts, her sister’s pointed elbows and knees when she shifted around after they’d been put too bed, their toes too chilly and their stomachs too tight to let them fall asleep easily.

She remembers an instant of peace, and terror, and feeling full, at last, and warm, before her sister screams and the blanket bursts into flames.

She remembers the taste of her mother’s tears, and the slightest shiver of relief in her voice, when the templars come and take her away.

She remembers too much steel, sharp grey steel surrounding her on her journey.  She remembers water, shifting blue and grey and cold, surrounding too much stone, even greyer, dank and chill and much too solid. She remembers the curl of her toes against stone floors, a shiver of fear chasing the shiver of cold as her feet shift against the edge of a seam between blocks beneath her.

And then, at last, she remembers color. 

Golden, and warm, and a smile just for her. The soft clasp of a hand around hers, fingers soft and full, warm water for washing, warm robes to wear, those same hands smoothing a thick blanket over her, no bare patches to catch against her knees or shoulders as a voice tells her to sleep, brisk but not unkind.

She comes back again in the morning, laughs and leads her to breakfast, thick porridge, enough for seconds, or even thirds, and shows her around. So many rooms, so many floors, so thick, not a hint of wind whispering around any corner.

Not that many corners, truthfully, all slow endless curves.

She is introduced to so many people, names and faces and a rainbow of color, robes and tunics and leather and wool and  _embroidery._ She barely remembers any of them, just an impossible collection of dark eyes, and a sharp shift of hands, and a breathless voice, and a slow warm smile of greeting.

She remembers the name of the one who greeted her, who brought her around and fed her and showed her the rooms full of books and quills and tables and upholstered chairs and  _so many fireplaces,_  as if one or two weren’t more than she’d ever seen in one room before.

Leorah, no,  _Enchanter_  Leorah, who promises to teach her about the fire, and that bright shining moment when she’d felt  _full_  and  _warm_  and  _powerful_.

Who is still smiling, even as she takes her back to the cafeteria for food,  _again,_  piles of bread and cheese and dried fruits and meats and urns full of tea.

Who is there, every day thereafter, to answer questions, or pose new ones, and for all she never tucks her into bed again, she is always there over breakfast, to smile and pass the porridge, a reminder that the whispers and the nightmares and the cold always pass away.


End file.
